Theweightinherlowerabdomengrewheavier,bulgingfaintlybeneaththesheet.
Almostthere.Almost.
Reyacouldn''tsitupproperly.Shebentherlegs,half-recliningagainsttheheadboard,herfeetplantedonthemattress,herhandsgrippingthecarvedbedframe.Sweatbeadedonherforehead,heramethysthairclingingtohercheeks,makingherdelicatefaceappearghostlypale.
Afaintmoanbrokeinthedarkness.Soft,asifsqueezedoutfromthecracksinthewoodenfloorboardsbeneaththebed.Ifonelistenedclosely,itwasalmostindistinct,yetitcarriedanachingresonance,asifdredgedfromthedepthsofhersoul.
Tick.
Thepinkalarmclockonthenightstandclickedasthehourhandpassedone.Reyaexhaledinrelief.Themoonlighttetheredtoherforeheadsuddenlysnappedfree,recoilinglikeabrokenrubberband,instantlyretreatingbacktothecream-coloreddesk.Besideit,ablue-coveredtextbook''spagesflutteredfaintly,asifbrushedbyaphantombreeze,beforesettlingbackintostillness.
TheonlysoundleftintheroomwasReya''sraggedbreathing.Everythingwasnormalagain.Asifnothinghadhappened.
Halfanhourlater,shesatupagain,wipingthesweatfromherbrowwiththebackofherhand.Shesweptherlong,violethairoveroneshoulderandcarefullyliftedthesheet.Beneathlayaclusterofgrape-sizedvioletorbs.
Fromthenightstand,sheretrievedaslender-neckedglassbottle,pullingoutthewoodenstopper.Withherslenderfingers,shepinchedeachorbonebyone.
Pop.Pop.Pop.
Thecolorlessliquidinsideseepedout,collectinginthebottle.Thepurplehusksshriveled.Withalightrubbetweenherfingers,theycrumbledintodust.
Shecountedthem.Forty-eight.
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